


Agency to Murder

by Kita_the_Spaz



Category: Welcome to Hell - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Murder, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-09 03:56:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4332963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kita_the_Spaz/pseuds/Kita_the_Spaz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sock watched a bright red bead of blood well and trickle down the blade of the knife. “See, you thought someone might be horning in on your territory, but he could have cared less about your girl. But then you had to follow him and that brought you into <i>my</i> territory!” Sock snarled. “He belongs to me. His death is mine, not some druggie-with-a-homicidal-streak’s.”</p><p>“<i>What</i> are you?” whimpered the man, all his bravado gone.</p><p>“A demon,” Sock grinned. “And your death.”</p><p>Inspired by these <a href="http://7ishfish.deviantart.com/art/Defensive-Sock-379400911">two</a> <a href="http://real-faker.deviantart.com/art/SNOW-356505865">pictures</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Opening Moves

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into this fandom. I saw the film and was hooked.

It was cold and gray, with dark-bellied clouds looming overhead and warning of more snow; but in spite of the gloom, Sock was feeling all kinds of wonderful. The colorfully-dressed demon floated upward and performed a series of loops in the air, just to let off some of the exuberance welling in his chest. Mid-air, he glanced down at his human counterpart, trudging down the narrow path of cleared sidewalk.

Jonathan tugged the hood of his gray sweatshirt over his blond head and hunched his shoulders against the cold. He glanced sideways up at Sock and the corner of his mouth quirked for an instant before he pasted on his usual apathetic scowl. “Come down here,” he grumbled. “You’re making me cold just looking at you.”

Sock laughed gleefully, barrel-rolling in the air until he was upside down, gazing at Jonathan from an inverted position. “I’m not cold. I’m never cold,” he reminded Jonathan cheerfully. “You know, you wouldn’t feel the cold if you’d just—”

“Kill myself?” Jonathan arched a brow at him, a clearly reluctant smile tipping the corners of his mouth up. “Yeah, yeah, so you keep saying. Maybe you should get some new material.”

Sock laughed, dropping down to shoulder-height and flipping over, leisurely stretching out in a position that made him look like he was lounging on his belly on a bed, even though all that was below him was only air. “Why change a sure thing?” he asked, resting his chin on folded arms and kicking his brown-booted feet idly behind him.

Jonathan rolled blue eyes at him, his expression one of long-suffering patience. “It hasn’t worked yet.”

“Give it time,” Sock rebutted cheerily. “Eventually it will.”

Jonathan snorted, a cloud of white curling around his cheeks. “You still suck at this.”

Sock was in too good a mood to let Jonathan’s barb bother him very much. “Why don’t you go out more often? I mean, you were having fun. You almost smiled.”

Jonathan huffed air through his nose and looked away. “It’s not my kind of thing. I don’t like crowds, drunks or needless violence.”

Sock grinned. It was a minor sin; Jonathan using a fake ID to sneak into the bar, but it had given Sock the gleeful feeling he was having some real influence on his human counterpart. “Well, there were all three of those there tonight,” he chirped, lifting a hand to tick off fingers. “There were two fights within the first five minutes of us getting in, and that blond in the bunny hat that kept hitting on you was totally wasted. That boyfriend of hers almost made it three fights! And crowded? I had more people walk through me than the door of a Taco Bell restroom.”

Jonathan barked a surprised laugh. “Not my fault. You didn’t have to follow me, you know.”

Sock pulled his face into a frown, having to concentrate to keep it in place when all he really wanted to do was keep grinning and enjoying the evening. “It’s my job!” he protested.

“It’s Saturday,” Jonathan retorted, no heat in his tone. “You have weekends off.”

“There is no rest for a demon. Through sleet, snow—”

“You are not the post office. Though you are postal.” Jonathan teased, an almost smile curling the edge of his lips.

Sock stuck his tongue out. “Shows what you know. The postal service is a division of Hell. So’s Walmart. Oh, and a whole bunch of fast food places too. Surprisingly, Taco Bell isn’t one of them, so you can’t blame us for what happens when you eat there.”

Jonathan snorted laughter again. “That explains so much.” He grinned up at Sock, eyes sparkling with amusement.

Sock laughed, dropping his pose to hover at Jonathan’s shoulder. “Doesn’t it though? Hey, speaking of explaining things, if you hate everything about the bar scene why did you wanna sneak in one tonight?”

Jonathan glanced over his shoulder, back toward the bar they had left. “The band. They’re local, but they do some really awesome covers of Valhalla Soundbox and Irish Stew of Sindidun. I heard they were playing here tonight.”

“Oh,” Sock brightened. “Wow, maybe I should listen to your music more often! I really liked some of the songs. Couldn’t understand all of them over the noise, but the ones I did, I liked!”

Jonathan half-smiled, glancing back over his shoulder again. “I’ll put on some when we get home, then. Maybe Valhalla’s premiere album, it has some of their best stuff on it, before they got a record deal.” He picked up his pace a bit, carefully avoiding a patch of ice. “Hey, Sock?” There was a new thread of tension running through his voice.

“Yeah?” Alert now, Sock looked down into Jonathan’s face, noting how pinched his lips were and the crease between his brows.

“I think someone’s following me. Since he can’t see you, wanna check for me? I don’t want to turn around again, in case he is.” Jonathan hunched his shoulders, his pace moving up to a fast trot.

Sock whirled in the air and darted back down the street. He spun around the last corner they had turned and phased right through someone. If he’d been corporeal, he’d have crashed right into him. The man shivered like he’d felt something, giving Sock a good look at his face. It was the guy from the bar, the drunk chick’s boyfriend. His spiked, pink-dyed hair was roughly mussed, like he’d run his hands through it repeatedly, and his red-rimmed eyes darted nervously around, almost like he _sensed_ Sock passing through him. Sock brushed a hand through his arm again, hoping he was wrong.

The man flinched, rubbing his shoulder as if it were cold. His dilated eyes flicked around wildly for a moment before fixing again on Jonathan’s receding form. His lips lifted to bare his teeth in a snarl and he hurried his pace.

More than worried now, Sock put on a burst of speed. His thoughts were a useless jumble of panic and concern. “Keep walking,” he warned Jonathan as soon as he was in earshot. “You’re right; you are being followed. It’s the dude from the bar, the one whose girlfriend kept hitting on you. He’s got a mad-on and I seriously think he’s on something. I mean, he felt me when I crashed into him! Who does that?” He knew he was babbling, but couldn’t seem to put a rein on his mouth. He twisted to look over his shoulder again, fingers knotting uselessly in the fabric of his skirt. “He’s only about a block behind. You _have_ to hurry. Stay on the main street, close to the streetlights. No shortcuts, even if it will get you to the bus stop faster—”

_“Sock.”_ Jonathan’s voice still thrummed with that wire-tight tension, but the face he turned up to Sock was calm. “You’re babbling. I know this stuff, okay?”

Sock sighed, out of habit mostly, being that he didn’t need to breathe anymore and tried to calm himself. “I know. I _know_ you know this stuff, but—”

“You’re scared,” Jonathan interrupted quietly. “Believe me, I am too.”

“I’m not scared,” Sock protested. “I’m a demon. We’re the scary ones!”

“Keep telling yourself that.” Jonathan retorted, picking up his pace again, his breath coming in rapid puffs of white vapor.

Sock turned to keep an eye on the nutjob following them. He wasn’t exactly keeping up to Jonathan’s not-quite-a-run, but he was still closing the distance.

Suddenly, there was a startled yip from Jonathan, followed by a thud.

Sock whipped his head back around.

Jonathan had slipped on a spot of black ice, all but invisible under the glare of the streetlights. He’d gone down awkwardly, one knee still on the patch of ice, his other knee and both arms buried in a snowdrift. There was a cut on his chin from a chunk of ice, red blood spattering the snow in a melting pattern.

Panicked, Sock dropped out of the air to futilely attempt to tug Jonathan upright. Cursing the intangibility of his demonic state, he pled, “C’mon, Jonathan, Let me help you.”

Jonathan ignored his plea, struggling to get his feet under him.

Then there was no time left, as a fist passed right through Sock to plow into Jonathan’s face.

“Jonathan!”

Shaking his head dizzily, Jonathan struggled out of the snowbank, one hand going to his rapidly bruising cheek. “What the _fuck_ , man?” He glared daggers at his assailant. “What the hell do you want?”

Whatever he was on, it seemed to fill the man with a manic sort of energy, He bounced on his toes, glowering at Jonathan. “You stay away from her, bastard!” he snarled. “She’s mine!” He swung wildly.

Deftly ducking the windmilling fist, Jonathan skipped back a step. He nearly twisted an ankle on the ice but managed to stay upright, bracing his feet on a part of the sidewalk that was thankfully free of ice. “Dude, she came onto me, not the other way around!”

“Jonathan, do _not_ antagonize the crazy person!” Sock shouted, darting in to swing rather ineffectively at Jonathan’s pink-haired attacker

The blows, incorporeal as they were, seemed to disorient the man for a moment. “Jonathan, get out of here!” Sock shouted, still attempting to attack.

The man flailed wildly at the air, none of his strikes coming anywhere near Sock, then his eye fell on Jonathan’s retreating form and drunken rage filled his face.

“Stay away from her!” he roared, lunging through Sock and after Jonathan. “I’ll fucking murder you, you touch her again!”

Jonathan backed up rapidly, holding his hands up. “Seriously, I never touched her except to pry her drunk butt off of me. I’m not going near her, ever again.” The lunatic seemed to be listening, so Jonathan continued. “Look, man, I just wanna get on the bus and go home. You can go back to bunny-girl and forget yo—”

It was the wrong thing to say. The rage on the man’s flushed face turned into homicidal fury and he launched himself at Jonathan. _”Don’t call her that!”_

Jonathan barely managed to block the first strike, but a backhanded blow to his already bruising cheek sent him reeling backwards. Staggered, he lost his balance and went down on his ass. Sock could see the hit had dazed him.

Bracing himself over Jonathan’s slumped form, Sock clenched his fists and glared furiously at his attacker. “You’re _not_ touching him again!”

“He can’t hear you, Sock,” Jonathan mumbled dazedly, shaking his head slowly.

“I don’t care,” Sock retorted, daring to glance down at Jonathan, who was trying to get back to his feet. It took him two tries to make it as far as his knees. “He can’t do that!”

Sock knew the hits Jonathan had taken had to have been brutal because he was swaying unsteadily on his knees, and gingerly touching the purpling side of his face with a sort of detached fascination.

Sock crouched over him. “Jonathan, stay down for a minute, okay?”

Jonathan, being Jonathan, ignored him, trying a third time to rise to his feet.

A hand shoved straight through Sock’s chest to grab the front of Jonathan’s hoodie, hauling him forward. For an instant, Sock and Jonathan were nose to nose, dazed blue eyes staring into green.

Then the world dissolved into white, washed with red.


	2. Possession with Intent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not Betaed so feel free to comment with any corrections I might have missed. Thanks for the love so far. Hope this lives up to your expectations.

Sock’s face hurt and his head was ringing. For a moment, he wondered if he’d been knocked unconscious by one of his bullies and dreamed the whole thing about dying and becoming a demon.

He forced dazed eyes open and saw not the tiled floor of his school, or the park where they usually cornered him, but the pink-dyed hair and manic expression of the lunatic who’d come after Jonathan. The throb in the left side of his face and the smell of the man’s boozy breath finally gave Sock the clue he needed.

He’d heard some of the other demons talking about possession, and how it felt to live and breathe again inside a human host, but he’d never tried; unsure of how it would work. After all, he couldn’t even interact with Jonathan unless the teen allowed it.

Now he was inside Jonathan, in control of Jonathan’s battered body. He could feel Jonathan somewhere in the back of his mind, not asleep, per se, but mostly unaware.

For the first time since he’d seen the man trailing Jonathan, his thoughts were crystal-clear. He was dizzy but the feeling was rapidly fading under the rush of adrenaline.

Grinning ferally, he brought up a hand and viciously dug thumb and index finger into the hand that held Jonathan’s shirt, aiming for the bundle of nerves in the webbing between thumb and palm. He pressed hard enough that one of Jonathan's blunt nails drew blood.

Cursing, the man released his hold, clutching his aching thumb in his other hand. “I’mma fucking kill you for that, blondie!”

Now that the haze was clearing, Sock rose to his feet, reveling in the feel of a real, living body around him again. He grinned widely. “You can try.”

Startlement flashed in those dilated eyes and something akin to fear sparked in their depths. 

Sock reveled in it. 

Wheezing, Jonathan’s attacker backed off a step, and reached in his pocket with the hand Sock hadn’t just temporarily disabled. He yanked out a switchblade and flicked it open with practiced efficiency. Confidence came back into his face.

Sock almost laughed, letting his cheshire smirk grow that much wider. “Ooh, a knife.” Blindingly fast, Sock lashed out. The speed he’d used to catch squirrels as a kid stood him in good stead and the side of his hand slammed into his opponent's wrist, right where all those delicate little bones connected.

The man yelped, dropping the blade, numbed fingers unable to hold it any longer.

Sock snatched the blade out of the air before it had even fallen its own length. He tossed it into the air to get a feel for the balance, feeling it settle into his palm like it belonged there. “Thanks for bringing my favorite party favor to this party.” He grinned wickedly at his hapless prey.

Now there was real fear in those eyes. “Who the fuck are you?”

Sock laughed and lunged forward, pressing the knife up under the man’s chin. “You would have been smarter if you had just stayed back at the bar with your drunk little bunny. But no, you had to be stupid and follow us.”

He watched a bright red bead of blood well and trickle down the blade of the knife. “See, you thought someone might be horning in on your territory, but he could have cared less about your girl. But then you had to follow him and that brought you into _my_ territory!” Sock snarled. “He belongs to me. His death is mine, not some druggie-with-a-homicidal-streak’s.”

“ _What_ are you?” whimpered the man, all his bravado gone.

“A demon,” Sock grinned. “And your death.”

Sock had almost forgotten how it felt to slide a knife into yielding flesh; how it parted beneath the blade, giving and supple. The intoxicating scent of copper, rich in the air and the splash of hot blood on his hands. 

Panting, Sock stood over the body of the man who’d attacked Jonathan, blood dripping slowly from the blade of the knife and onto the figure sprawled lifelessly at his feet. The rush of the kill had faded and all he felt was a sort of detached numbness. It wasn’t a feeling he liked.

Sock took a quick look around, but the street remained empty as anyone with any sense had long ago gone someplace warm.

Dispassionately, he glanced down at the corpse. Despite the arterial spray that had spattered on Sock-in-Jonathan, there was surprisingly little blood, most of it soaked into the thick jacket the man was wearing and a small patch melting into the piled up snow beside the sidewalk. There were a couple of spots on the sidewalk itself, but they were tiny droplets that would go unnoticed with a little work.

Using the toe of one sneaker, Sock scattered a little snow over the blood-spatter. With the fresh snow still falling lightly, they’d be gone the next time someone plowed the sidewalks. He considered the patch of bloody snow. That had to go.

There was an overflowing trash bin a few steps away, with a large lidded styrofoam take-out cup on the top. Using the lid as an impromptu shovel, he scooped every bit of bloodied snow into the cup, even the spot where Jonathan’s cut chin had dripped. No way he was leaving any evidence behind.

That taken care of, he wrapped the end of the man’s scarf around the hilt of the knife, wiping Jonathan's prints away in the process. He had to hide Jonathan’s involvement. He had to be careful.

He wished there was one of those cleared parking lots nearby, the ones where they just piled up the snow off to one side until the heap was taller than a semi. He could just bury the body in one of those and it wouldn’t be found until spring. Then he shook his head at himself. That wouldn’t be nearly enough time to destroy any remaining evidence. He needed a better place to hide the body.

A memory scratched at his hindbrain. There was a culvert nearby; a major storm drain that dumped into the river. When spring came, the runoff from the melting snow would carry the body to the river, and from there the swift current would drag him out to sea. Oh, he might eventually be found but by that time, exposure to the elements and rot would have taken their toll and destroyed any remaining evidence. It was perfect.

It was... Sock hesitated. How had he known about that culvert? He had never been to this town before being assigned to haunt Jonathan.

 _Jonathan!_ That was from Jonathan’s memory. As a preteen, he’d found the culvert and used it as a place to hide when his parents were arguing. He’d spent many hours there, wishing things could go back to normal and they could move back to his childhood home, the Floridian town his maternal grandparents still lived in.

Now that Sock was aware of it, he could feel Jonathan— stirring, for lack of a better term— in the back of his skull. It was almost like a headache, the growing pressure from Jonathan’s mind. There was anger and confusion swirling in his head and Sock knew he had to move fast before Jonathan came fully aware and forced Sock from his body.

Setting the cup of bloodied snow and the knife on the chest of the corpse, Sock grabbed the body by the feet and hauled it into the alley. He only had to get it as far as the culvert.

Through much panting and effort, he managed to haul the body down the alley. Jonathan’s memory showed the culvert ran beside the abandoned warehouse that made up the left wall of the alley. This end had a rusted grate with a padlocked iron chain, while the other end ended at the sheer plunge into the river. Sock wasn’t too worried. He knew he could manage the lock or if not that, the hinges of the grate.

Sock could feel Jonathan coming closer to wakefulness, and knew he didn’t have a whole lot of time in command of his body. He risked a glance around for prying eyes but saw none. Heaving the corpse under the concrete overhang that sheltered the grated end of the culvert, Sock stopped and rifled through the pockets of the body, hoping there was something he could use as a means to open the padlock. Forty-seven cents, a pack of gum and a comb later, he’d found a set of keys and a screwdriver that just might do the trick.

It took three broken keys and a lot of frustration, but he finally managed to jimmy the lock open. Hauling the rusty grate to one side, Sock made sure that he tucked everything back into place. There had to be no evidence left behind. The bottom of the culvert was coated in ice, which made moving the body easier, but the footing incredibly treacherous. He hauled it as far as he dared, to the point where the slope began to steepen and the risk of falling became life-threatening. Giving the body one last good shove and tossing the cup and the knife down the worsening slope, Sock fled back toward the grate as fast as Jonathan’s legs would carry him.

Sock had just wedged the padlock shut again when he felt the increasing pressure of Jonathan’s mind become unbearable. Clutching his head, Sock fled back into the alley and made for the street. He’d nearly made it when the pain became blinding and he was forcibly ejected from Jonathan’s mind and body.

Too dazed by the abrupt banishment to float, Sock sat where he fell, in a pile of snow, looking up at Jonathan.

Jonathan was staring down at his bloodied hands and shirt with a look of absolute horror. Jaw set and teeth clenched, he turned on his heel and stalked away from Sock, his pace just short of a run.

Sock scrambled after him, frightened by the lifeless expression and the thousand yard stare. “J-Jonathan?”

He got no response, only the harsh rasp of Jonathan's panicked breathing. He could see Jonathan shaking and his blood-stained fingers twitching and curling spasmodically. 

It was the most frightening thing he’d ever seen. Even waking up to find his parents dead and himself splattered with their blood hadn’t terrified him so much as this. “Jonathan, please!”

There was no hesitation in Jonathan’s stride. 

Sock followed after him, desperate to get Jonathan to acknowledge he was there. He was used to being invisible to others, but not to Jonathan. When repeated calls of Jonathan’s name, even the despised nickname of Johnny, garnered no reaction, Sock tried to reassure Jonathan. “Everything’s okay now.”

That got a reaction. “Everything is _not_ okay! _Everything_ is so fucking far from _okay_ , there’s not even a way to get there from here!” Jonathan snarled, his head down and his pace increasing.

“They’re not going to find the guy,” Sock tried again to reassure him. “I covered my tracks thoroughly. You’ll be fine!”

Jonathan’s shoulders slumped. “Sock...” he sighed. “You’re missing the point entirely.” He turned to look at Sock and under the shell-shocked stare was something that scared Sock witless. 

If he dared, he might have termed it... hatred.


	3. A Matter of Semantics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan's a little shaken up. ~holds fingers apart~ Little, teeny bit.
> 
> Thanks so much for the love!
> 
> Mistakes? Grammar fail? Opinions on Mephistopheles' characterization? Feel free to point any and all out.

Jonathan continued his fast walk, ignoring any further attempts at conversation.

Sock could only follow.

Up the hill, Jonathan stopped his aimless trot and actively turned down a side-street.

Sock squinted at the street sign in the snowy gloom and found the name of the place to be Ravine Court. 

Jonathan, utterly ignoring his increasingly worried pleas, cut through an overgrown yard at the back of the cul-de-sac and climbed over a concrete embankment.

Sock hovered behind him, torn between anger and uncertainty. He’d never seen Jonathan like this and somewhere deep down he was sure he didn’t like it at all.

On the other side of the embankment was the gorge that had given the neighborhood it’s name. It was a sheer drop of some fifty feet, carved out of the bedrock by the swiftly running river that still tumbled at the bottom. It offered a breathtaking view, or had before suburbia had crowded out most of nature's wonders.

There was a wooden overlook jutting out beyond the lip of the drop, A weathered sign proclaimed it Lover’s Look, but by the looks of it, no lovers had been here for longer than Jonathan had been alive. It was more gaps than whole planks, and sectioned off from the embankment by a rusting section of chain-link fence with an equally battered, “Danger: No Trespassing” placard.

Deaf to Sock, Jonathan ducked under an old _Condemned_ sign and slithered through a gap where the rusting fence had been pulled away from the concrete, probably by whoever had tagged the remaining parts of the lookout with obscene graffiti.

Icy wind, channeled by the ravine, and laden with snow, whipped Jonathan’s hair around his face. Undeterred, he slung a leg over the creaky railing and edged out onto wooden planks gone gray with age. Another step and he stood on the edge of the precipice, the toes of his battered sneakers over empty air.

Sock could hear the half-rotten wood creaking and groaning in time with the icy gusts coming up of the churning waters below.

“Jonathan?” His voice sounded hesitant in his own ears and Sock swallowed harshly. His heart hadn’t beat in over a year now, but even then it had never felt like the lump of painful lead currently occupying his chest. He no longer needed to breath, so why couldn’t he get enough air? “Jonathan...?”

Jonathan didn’t look at him, staring instead into the frothing, ice-laden water below. His face, where it wasn’t bruised, was pale; cold and still as a marble bust. Finally he spoke. “This is what you wanted all along, right, Sock?” Jonathan turned to face him, hollow eyes the only sign of life in his shadowed face. There was still a spatter of drying blood on his cheek, rust on white. “Isn’t it?” he asked, voice gone dead and flat. “You’ve been following me — _tormenting_ me— for nearly a year now, trying to drive me mad or into killing myself.” He shifted his weight and the wood beneath him gave a tortured groan. “Looks like you finally succeeded.”

Sock’s innards gave a lurch, a sick feeling growing in the immaterial pit of his stomach. He’d bugged Jonathan daily to do it, to kill himself, but now, with the possibility staring him in the face... It didn’t feel like a triumph. It didn’t feel like anything that it should.

“N-no.” He couldn’t even hear his own feeble denial, so he licked his lips and tried again. “No, Jonathan,” he managed, louder this time. “I was trying to protect you. He... he was going to kill you! I couldn’t let that happen!”

Jonathan’s hands curled into fists. “You’ve been trying to convince me to kill myself for a _year!”_ The cold apathy had vanished from his face, replaced with rage, a tumult of fury that Sock had never even known could be hiding under Jonathan’s uncaring facade. “He could have done the job for you, but you had to take me over and turn me into a murderer!” Jonathan spat, panting, his accusing voice raspy and catching between words.

Blood had always been lovely to Sock, crimson and scarlet when it spilled; rust and brown when it dried in splatter patterns, but the sight of Jonathan’s bloodied face and clothes made him want to be ill. His heart, if it could still beat, felt like it might break open his chest with the agonizing jerk it made.

“Jonathan, no...” Sock faltered. “I-I— I was only trying to protect you.” Sock had to wonder if demons could cry, because his eyes itched and burned like he was going to.

 _”Why?”_ Jonathan’s shout was an anguished cry. “You— You’ve been trying to drive me into killing myself since I met you! Why not let him finish the job for you?”

_”Because...”_

The mellow voice made both of them start, the wood creaking dangerously under Jonathan’s weight.

Mephistopheles stepped out of where there had only been shadows, darkness curling away from his feet like a living thing. He smoothed his hands down his purple-shading-to-black lapels and fixed Jonathan with an amber stare. “If you die by any agency but your own hand, your soul is forfeited, meaning you go free. Hell cannot have you.”

“Who in the hell are you?” Jonathan was shaking, his eyes white-rimmed.

“In a sense, you’ve just answered your own question.” Mephistopheles glided a step closer. resting a hand on Sock’s shoulder. It felt strangely heavy and cold enough to hurt. “Mephistopheles at your service, Mr. Combs. Sock here is one of my demonary agents.” He offered an ironic little bow, his hand never leaving Sock’s shoulder.

“What?” Confusion crowded out the fury in Jonathan’s expression and his fists relaxed a little.

“Look, I’ll make it simple. You commit suicide, your soul belongs to Hell. You die by any other means, you go free, either to flitter of into the — ugh— light,” Mephistopheles grimaced exaggeratedly, fluttering his free hand in the air for a moment, “—Or hang around as a revenant... a ghost, if you will. Hell will have no hold on you.”

“Wait— wait, he can see you now?” Sock glanced up into Mephistopheles’ smug face. “I thought he couldn’t—”

“Oh, please, where do you think all those stories of a deal with me come from?” Mephistopheles grinned like a hungry shark, shoving fingers through his ginger hair. “Do you think I invite them all into my office for a cup of tea?”

“You never offered me tea,” Sock couldn’t help but rebut sullenly.

Mephistopheles ignored him. All his attention was on Jonathan.

Jonathan was shaking now. “You already have my soul,” he bit out, wild eyes darting to Sock and back quickly. “ _He_ made me a murderer!”

“No, Mr. Combs, he made you a _tool_. It was him wielding the knife, not you.” Mephistopheles leaned forward, releasing his grip on Sock; his golden eyes fixed on Jonathan intently. “You were simply an... _agency_ to murder, not a killer. It’s a matter of semantics and those are _Her_ favorite game. People call _me_ sneaky. _Her_ loopholes have loopholes.” He waved a hand negligently. “But semantics or not, the rules apply.”

“Why should I believe you? You’ve just admitted to sending Sock to deliver my soul to you!”

“That’s what I do,” Mephistopheles shrugged. “I’d be pleased to be in possession of your soul, but in the end, whether you wind up in my realm or not, it really doesn’t matter. You’re just another soul and I can always find a replacement.” Mephistopheles grinned at the look of shock on Jonathan’s face. “Surprised? It’s only the truth. _She_ always calls me the great deceiver, but why lie... when the truth can hurt _so_ much more?”

Still wearing that unnerving grin, Mephistopheles draped a casual arm around Sock’s shoulders.

Sock shuddered and tried not to move away, because the arm felt heavy enough to crush him.

“The truth— if you want to hear it,” Mephistopheles chuckled. “Is exactly what I told you. Die by any hand but your own, and you are free to do whatever you mortals do when you’re not being dragged down into hell. Of course, that’s not _all_ of the truth, Mr. Combs.” He leaned closer to Sock’s ear.

Sock tried not to shiver. Mephistopheles had never frightened him on this level before, not the almost atavistic terror shivering through every fiber of his being.

“I know a lot of truths, Mr. Combs, both big ones and small ones.” Mephistopheles continued. “Would you like another one? Perhaps one about Mr. Sowachowski here?”

Sock could not control his reflexive flinch. He had not felt true cold since his death, but it felt like the icy, snow-laden wind was cutting right through the deepest recesses of his self. “W-what truth?” he asked uncertainly. What could Mephistopheles tell Jonathan that he didn’t already know? He didn’t know and it terrified him.

Jonathan was watching them with an inscrutable expression, his eyes darting back and forth between their faces.

Mephistopheles chuckled, his gaze never leaving Jonathan.”A small one, then, to whet the appetite for more. I know all of his deepest, darkest secrets, after all... those truths more painful and cutting than lies.”

“That’s enough,” Jonathan retorted sharply. “I don’t need your lies— or your _truths_.”

Silence loomed, so profound that the hiss of falling snow and the churning of the river were all muted. It was like the world was holding a heavy, expectant breath.

Mephistopheles laughed, a rich, booming sound of pure amusement. “Heh, I like you, kid.” He scratched a ginger sideburn with one finger, smirking. “I may have to find something better for you than alphabetizing the Hall of Crippling Phobias. You have moxie, and I can appreciate that.” He straightened up, lifting his arm from Sock’s shoulders. “Very well then, one for the road. Sock here wasn’t trying to save his job... or himself— by saving you. Chew on that one for a while.”

Shadows crowded around Mephistopheles’ legs, creeping upwards.

Jonathan had turned his unblinking gaze on Sock, who could no more turn away than he could keep the world from turning. “Sock?”

There were a million questions all compressed into that one simple syllable and Sock had no Idea where to start answering them. He opened his mouth to try.

The overlook had taken enough. With a tortured shriek of overstressed metal and shattering wood, it sheared away from the wall of the ravine.

For the barest instant, Jonathan appeared to hang unsupported in the air. In the next moment, he was gone, dropping from sight.

 _“Jonathan!”_ Sock screamed, the sound torn from his throat. He lunged toward the edge.

“Well, that’s unfortunate,” Mephistopheles said quietly, the darkness receding from around his feet.

Sock fell to his knees at the edge of the sheer drop. _“Unfortunate?!”_ he realized he was screaming, but couldn’t make himself stop.

“Mmm. Intent counts. He had decided to live. An accident takes it out of our jurisdiction and into _Hers_.” He shrugged helplessly. “Sorry, kid.”

“Sock!” Jonathan’s voice was thin with terror, barely audible over the roars of the river below as it fought over the wreckage of the overlook.

“Jonathan!” Sock leaned precariously out over the edge, forgetting in that moment that he could float.

A full body-length below him, Jonathan clung with both hands to the remains of one of the supports. Sock could see the metal biting cruelly into Jonathan’s hands, blood trailing in rivulets down his wrists.

“Oh, crap. Jonathan, hang on!” Shocked into action, Sock plunged over the edge to reach Jonathan. He was helpless to aid him though, incorporeal as he was. Still, he tried desperately to clutch Jonathan’s straining wrists. His fingers passed through Jonathan’s flesh with no effect. Jonathan was too frightened to think enough to allow Sock his limited ability to touch him.

Sock kept trying, terror welling up in his throat like bile. If Jonathan fell now, he was lost to Sock forever, bound for the light or whatever awaited him. Sock would never see him again. Desperate, he tried to grasp Jonathan’s hands, hoping through sheer force of will he could impose solidity enough to hold on.

A flash of movement to his right and Mephistopheles floated upside down beside him, legs crossed at the knee and hands propped behind his head. “Well now, isn’t this quite the predicament? Y’know, you could always choose to let go, kid. That would count.”

Jonathan’s dilated, frightened eyes were fixed on Sock’s but he still snarled at Mephistopheles. “Go to Hell!”

Mephistopheles chuckled. “Stage directions. I like that.”

“Please, please, please, please—” Sock chanted frantically under his breath, trying again to cling to Jonathan with intangible hands.

Mephistopheles smile melted into a frown and he snapped his fingers. The world shuddered and stopped in place. A snowflake hung a whisper away from Sock’s nose, frozen in place. Time too, it seemed, was holding its breath.

Tsking softly, Mephistopheles floated down to stare at Jonathan’s unmoving form. “Y’know, kid, for someone so disillusioned by humanity, he’s got a lot of fight in him.” Upside down, he stared into Jonathan’s frozen-wide eyes. “Some real fire in there too. He’d make a half-decent demon if we could just do something about those morals.”

“Do something!” Sock pleaded, daring to take his attention from Jonathan for an instant.

Mephistopheles frowned at him and Sock's gut twisted into a knot, but he defiantly floated up to face his boss squarely.

“Do something, is it?” Mephistopheles quirked an eyebrow, his lips set in a thin line. “What exactly is it you would have me do?”

Desperate, Sock spit out the first thing that came to mind. “It’s not suicide this way! He wouldn’t be ours!”

Mephistopheles went unnaturally still, a corner of his mouth twitching. “Ours?”

Sock quailed, flinching backwards.

Rich laughter filled every atom of the space around him, vibrating in his intangible bones and reverberating through his ears in octaves he both could and couldn’t hear. Sock shook with the power in it.

Still chuckling merrily, Mephistopheles knuckled an eye. “Ah, kid, what am I going to do with you?” He shook his head. “Very well. I’ll give this one to you. I’ll let you save him _this_ time... because, as I said, intent counts. One more chance, Mr. Sowachowski, to convince him to be... _ours_.”

He reached out and rested a fingertip against Sock’s forehead. A burning tingle that was somehow both freezing cold and searingly hot at the same time raced through Sock from the point of contact.

Sock yelped and almost fell out of the air. He felt surprisingly heavy and kind of dizzy and disoriented. His whole being hummed with the new energy.

Mephistopheles laughed, vanishing into the snowy air. His voice lingered. “You’ll get used to it. Might want to hurry, though,” he amended. “I don’t know how much longer _our_ Mr. Combs can hang on.” His laughter faded.

The world ceased to hold its breath. Cold wind sliced through Sock like a razor-blade.

He dived for Jonathan, who had closed his eyes in the struggle to maintain his grip. Sock could see he was nearing the end of his strength.

This time, his reaching hands closed firmly around Jonathan’s trembling wrists.

“Jonathan,” Sock called. “Jonathan, please, look at me.”

Jonathan’s eyes snapped open again and he focused on Sock. His pupils were so wide there was only a tiny ring of blue left around them.

Sock held his gaze steadily. “Jonathan, I know you don’t trust me at all, but just this once I need you to,” Sock pled, desperation coloring the tone. “I have you. I won’t let you fall.”

Jonathan stared at him unblinking, for a moment that felt like an eternity. Finally, he nodded.

Sock could have sagged in relief, but dared not let his concentration falter. “I’ll never let you fall. I have you and I’m not letting you go.” Sock continued to hold Jonathan’s gaze. “Now, let go, Jonathan.”

Jonathan’s breath escaped in a long sigh. He blinked slowly and a wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I trust you.” he breathed.

He let go.


	4. Demon Dealing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, meant to upload this yesterday, but reality got in the way.

Jonathan’s full weight slammed down on Sock’s arms. It hurt, real pain, like the way he’d felt the bruises while he possessed Jonathan, like the agonizing pain of sliding a knife into his own flesh. He might have thought his muscles were tearing from the sharp aches racing up his arms to his shoulders. There was nothing in the world that could convince him that the hurt wasn’t a good thing, though, because it reassured him that he still had a real, solid grip on Jonathan.

Sock screamed and hauled; heaving himself and Jonathan upward torturous inches at a time. It seemed to take forever to reach the edge. At last, he could brace his feet on the top of the ravine, and with that leverage flung himself backwards in one monumental last effort.

Jonathan landed sprawled across Sock’s chest. His legs, from the knee down, still dangled over the drop, but that didn’t matter. He was safe.

Laughing breathlessly, Sock wrapped his aching arms around Jonathan and just held on, lying there and basking in relief.

Jonathan didn’t move for a while, just shaking and breathing harshly against Sock’s chest. It was a long time before he levered himself up and rolled off of Sock. He sat up, hitching himself back from the edge and dragged a trembling hand down his face. Blood from the cuts on his hand streaked his skin, overlaying the older, dried blood spatters, but he either didn’t notice or care.

“Sock?”

Sock sat up, the relief falling away abruptly. All that remained was fear and thoughts chasing themselves in dizzying circles that he could get no leash on. _Jonathan would hate him now. He would never kill himself just to spite him; Jonathan would find some way to be rid of Sock. He would hate having to be grateful for—_

“Thank you,” Jonathan said quietly., his eyes fastened on the bloodied hands resting in his lap. “Thank you for saving me. Twice now, I suppose. I don’t think I had made up my mind to die just yet.”

It felt like his stomach had fallen out the hole in his chest at the shock. Sock flailed mentally, unable to get past the fact that Jonathan was actually _thanking_ him. “Um, well —er— intent—”

“Sock.” Jonathan turned to him, that small half-smile that Sock loved to see on his face curving his lips. “Shut up.”

Sock shut up.

Jonathan rose unsteadily to his feet, grimacing at the bloody handprints he’d left across the knees of his jeans. “Really better hope the cops don’t drive by while we’re walking home. I’m pretty sure we missed the last bus,” he muttered wryly. “Not that they’d let me on looking like this,” he mumbled under his breath, looking down at his torn, bleeding hands..

Sock rose and drifted over to a hummock of fresh snow. To his surprise, he was still tangible enough to grab a handful of it. He floated back to Jonathan.

Jonathan watched him a little warily, but submitted to Sock using the snow and one end of his surprisingly solid scarf to clean the blood from his face and hands. Blood still leaked sluggishly from the gashes on his hands and the left side of his face was turning a spectacular shade of purple, while there were bloodstains on his gray hoodie that Sock could do nothing about.

“You look like you were in one heckuva fight,” Sock said lightly.

“I was,” Jonathan retorted.

And just like that, the elephant in the room was back.

Sock looked down at his hands, fiddling idly with the damp end of his scarf. Firming his shoulders, he looked up and met Jonathan’s eyes. “I won’t apologize for what I did, because I don’t regret it. He was going to kill you, and I couldn’t let that happen.”

Jonathan sighed. “Because that’s your job, right? Driving me into offing myself?”

 _”No!”_ Sock exploded. He clenched his fists on the edge of of his shirt and wished he could still breathe. A breathing exercise to calm himself would go a long way right now. “ — And yes, it _is_ my job, but also because you’re... you’re my friend. The only one I’ve had... in... in a long time. Driving you to kill yourself is my job, and I’ll keep at it as long as it takes, because as long as you’re alive, I can be here with you too. You heard Mephistopheles. You die by any hand but yours, you go— elsewhere. If it’s really heaven or what, I don’t know because I’ll never get there. There’s _no_ place for someone like me there.” Twisting his hands in the front of his shirt, Sock glanced away.

“If you— do it— punch your own ticket, you come to hell. I think you impressed my boss— Mephistopheles, because he said you might make a half-decent demon. And even if you do end up alphabetizing the Hall of Crippling Phobias, you’ll be somewhere I can still visit you. And I would, you know, every day that I could. Maybe in time, you... you’ll see me as a friend.”

“Not gonna happen.”

Those three words hurt worse than the knife; worse than the torturous pain of hauling Jonathan back to safety. Sock fell out of the air with a thud, careening backwards on shaky legs. He’d known it all along, known that Jonathan might never see him as anything more than an annoyance, but some still-human part of him had held out hope. A hope that was now dust to be carried off on the icy wind. 

“I—” Unable to look up, because he now knew for sure that demons could still cry, Sock stumbled away, throat aching. 

Jonathan’s bleeding hand caught his wrist before he could make his longed-for escape. He was held fast, unable to phase away from the teen’s firm grasp. He struggled, pulling uselessly at the fingers wrapped tightly around flesh that was now far too real for Sock. “L-let me go, Jonathan.” Swallowing down something that might have become a sob, he plucked desperately at Jonathan’s grip.

“No, “ Jonathan’s voice was firm. “Because, as much as I don’t like you sometimes— and believe me, I really do hate your guts sometimes— we’re already friends.”

Sock felt like a puppet with its strings cut; he could have collapsed from the relief and yes, fierce _joy_ that filled him at those words. He scrubbed at his wet cheeks with the back of his free hand. “We are?”

“Yes.” Jonathan’s grip tightened. “But you’ve got to promise me something, Sock.”

Though he wanted to promise absolutely _anything_ to keep Jonathan at his side, Sock instinctively knew better. “What?” he asked warily, daring to meet Jonathan’s gaze again.

“No more possessing me and using me to kill people. I don’t care how dangerous you think they are, you are _not_ using me to kill. Clear?” Jonathan fixed him with a stern frown, brows drawn down over steady blue eyes.

Sock quavered. “I-I can’t promise not to possess you again. I might have to,” he hastily added before the protest he could see forming could escape Jonathan’s mouth. “But that I can promise. I won’t use you as... as an agency to murder again. I promise.”

The corner of Jonathan’s mouth twisted in that wry way again. “I suppose that’s the best I’m going to get out of you, isn’t it? Fine,” Jonathan acceded. “But unless my life is in danger, you ask first. Deal?”

“Deal,” Sock sighed.

Jonathan turned away, still holding onto Sock’s wrist absentmindedly. “Let’s go home already, okay, Sock?”

Sock couldn’t have pulled away if he wanted to. “Okay.”


	5. Epilogue: Heaven in Hell

Mephistopheles passed a handful of blueprints to Tom with a nod of acknowledgement, doing his best to ignore the never-ending sounds of construction mingling with the screams of the damned.

He turned, and obedient as always, the door to his office waited right at his elbow. He stepped inside, realizing that he wasn’t alone before he even saw _Her_. Her scent, like the beating heart of a neutron star and the cool recesses of the vast cosmos, was one he would _always_ know, no matter how he tried to forget it. It filled all his senses, blotting out everything but Her.

“Hello, Providence,” he sighed wearily, rubbing his temple with two fingers before turning to face the office. 

She was in his chair, all sleek grace and power, even at rest. Her suit, a white so pure it made even his office look gray and dingy against it, was perfectly creased and neat. She made him feel untidy just by being in the same realm. He hated it, and really, hadn’t she always been the messy one, strewing her creations left, right, and sideways?

Mephistopheles beat the feeling down, along with all the other things he kept carefully hidden beneath the surface. He would not allow her to fluster him. Not again. Putting on an urbane smile, he asked, “And what is it that brings you into my domain? Do forgive the mess, we’re under renovation.”

Providence rose with feline grace, smile warm and lighting up her face. “So formal?” She chuckled pleasantly. “I thought we had gotten past this.”

“I still remember my manners, even when surrounded by the pits and those that inhabit them,” Mephistopheles said coolly. He did not wish to get into this argument again; once in a star’s lifetime was more than often enough for his tastes. “To what do I owe the honor? The last time you visited my realm was... never, I believe.”

She actually winced at that one and Mephistopheles felt a momentary triumph that was immediately leavened by regret. It left him feeling worn and oh-so-weary. There were reasons they so seldom interacted.

“I deserved that,” Providence admitted, leaving him stunned. “I tend to let my anger get the better of me, and unfortunately, you tend to bear the brunt of it. All too often.”

It sounded like she was going to tender an apology, and that was the last thing he wanted from her. An apology would only make it harder to—

Mephistopheles cut that thought off abruptly. “So on to business then,” he forced a brisk tone. “To what do I owe your presence here?”

Her face saddened and she sighed, for a moment looking as weary as he felt. She sat down on the corner of his desk, crossing those endless legs and resting her hands on her knees. “I saw what you did.”

“Oh?” he inquired archly. “I’ve done a lot of things. I’m afraid you’ll have to be a bit more specific.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t feel it when you meddled with the human concept of time?” Her eyes, fathomless as the void between galaxies, were predatory, as was the smile that graced her lips.

Ah, so that was what had brought her, then. He should have known.

Mephistopheles shrugged it off, carefully not looking at her. “Your point? Human concepts are particularly malleable things by nature.”

With no intervening steps, she was suddenly in his face, one fingertip under his chin, forcing him to lift his eyes to her. “It was a _good_ thing, ‘Pheles.”

Her touch held him immobile, but he managed to turn his gaze away, finally able to find words. “Don’t call me that.”

She released him, but still stood so close he could feel her, like starlight prickling across his skin. “It was,” She asserted, tone warm and amused. 

Mephistopheles turned away, smoothing down his lapels. “Ah, yes, the saving of young Mr. Combs, because the saving of someone is yours.” He scoffed. “How careless of me to forget.”

Her gaze darkened momentarily and a frown pulled down the corners of her mouth.

“Oh, what will I do with you?” She breathed wearily. “Nothing is exclusively mine or yours. Even here, I linger, as you do in my realm.”

“If not for my interfering in something of _yours,_ what is it you want?” He tried not to sound bitter, but it was hard and growing harder. It was like this whenever they were together.

Providence sighed, rubbing her temple with her fingertips. “Must we go through this again? Everything I have, everything I created, I would willingly share. It is as much yours as it is mine. Every wrong that is blamed on you falls on me as well, because I crafted those, too.”

“As you said, this is an old argument and one that needs no rehashing.” Mephistopheles shook his head. “Sufficive to say, I meddled in something, and you took exception to it.”

“No,” Her tone was sharp enough to wound. “No.” Providence softened her voice. “I was happy. Do you know how happy that one simple act made me? How _very_ much joy it gave me?”

Mephistopheles ignored the questions. He refused to look at her, not knowing what he would see in her immeasurably deep eyes and afraid of what he might.

“Perhaps there is one thing of mine, you did not realize you shared.” She breathed quietly.

“Enough of this. Unless you have a point.”

“Forgiveness is mine.” Her lips were a brand of icy fire on his cheek.

He turned but she was gone. Her voice lingered in the echoing void made by her absence. “And you had that long ago.”

Mephistopheles could only stand there, unmoving, a hand to the cheek Providence had kissed.

**Author's Note:**

> Not Betaed, so point any mistakes out, please. Comments and Crit welcomed.


End file.
